Night of the Eagle
by Fromthelandofoz
Summary: Spock crashlands on a snowbound planet appropriated by the Klingons.  His life depends on the friendship of someone  that he finds there. Will they succeed in their attempt to save the Federation?
1. Chapter 1

Night of the Eagle

O0O

Chapter One: Prologue

Of course, Senak heard it first. Absorbed in a very delicate stage of her experiment, Keetah paid little attention as he suddenly left his own console and went unhurriedly over to the ventilation shaft. High above, the drift-wind howled and whined, distorting the almost imperceptible noise.

"What is it?" Puzzled by his silence, Keetah glanced around, then crossed the lab to join him. "Senak?"

He raised a slim-fingered hand to silence her. "Listen."

Obediently, Keetah pushed back the hood of her thermo-parka and placed her ear close to the vibrating metal of the shaft. A few seconds was enough to identify the low rumble of sound.

"An atmospheric vessel." She looked up at his proud, enigmatic face. "Could it be that Sirak has returned at last?"

They could hear it clearly now, the deep throb of engines plain even in the hibernation labs, the deepest compartment of the laboratory dome.

"No, it is not Sirak." Senak said abruptly, his breath puffing out clouds of vapor as it met the near-freezing air.

Keetah nodded, regret well-concealed behind the stoic mask of her people – the mask that had won her the guarded approval of the even more self-contained Vulcans she worked amongst. But if not the leader of their research team, then who was it? Few people were drawn to the frozen hell that was Hiemal wolf-world: an occasional outlaw willing to gamble life and limb for an illegal cargo of hides and fur, the odd scientist interested in their somewhat esoteric research into hibernation and estivation, but no one else. In the two years since they had been stationed on the wolf-world, this was the first time the galaxy outside had intruded on them.

Bounded by the wolf-world, Keetah's life had become interwoven with those of her Vulcan teammates. She wished no disruption of the smooth cooperation which had grown between them all.

"Could it be our routine starship check?" Keetah offered doubtfully. "The Enterprise is due within the next month or two. Or perhaps our reliefs from Main Base…"

"Illogical." Senak's voice was toneless, but she knew he welcomed this interruption no more than she. "A starship would use its transporters rather than risk a shuttle here. Nor could it be our replacements. Can you not hear? It is a large vessel with powerful engines and has been circling for some time now.

"Trying to locate us!" Keetah guessed, feeling the instant response to danger which was her ancestral legacy. "Why?"

"To learn that, we must go to the surface."

"You also believe trouble flies above us." Keetah accused.

Senak's gaze was level, reproving. "I did not say so. We will need full protective gear. The drift-wing grows in force."

He crossed to the always ready outdoor gear, swiftly donning insulated, double-layered furs, stout fur-lined boots, windproof gloves, and finally the snow-mask and goggles – essential if they were to survive the blinding white-death droning across the world above them. Keetah dressed with equal speed.

To leave the hibernation chamber they had to use an air lock. Base Two was a prefabricated, reinforced structure transported from Sigma Draconis, deeply sunken in a pit blasted from the ice and rock, only the entrance above ground. Sleeping quarters, storage rooms, transport hatch, and kitchen facilities were grouped nearer the surface. Life was bearable during a duty spell at the lab, for the rosters changed constantly, but only just in the freezing, below-zero temperatures.

A long corridor led to a steep ramp and the surface air lock. Senak went first, slipping his goggles down over his eyes as he pushed through the drifts of snow and ice blocking the entrance. Keetah followed. Although prepared for the biting cold that would leech air from her lungs, it still left her coughing violently, bent double against the force of the wind. Turning her back on the icy blasts that moaned like a soul in torment, the ice particles lashing into her face, she fumbled on snow mask and goggles.

Above the ceaseless howling she picked up another sound: the booming roar of engines straining at full capacity against the force of the drift-wind. Keetah turned full circle, trying to pinpoint the source, but it was Senak's Vulcan eyesight that finally located the obscured craft.

"There." He had to shout to make himself heard over the shrieking gale. Keetah followed his pointing finger, eyes screwed into slits against the fine white mist of endless, everlasting wind-drift, the licking snow shrouding vision. She watched the craft approach through the flying spray. Then it was bearing down on them, its sleek lines unmistakable, and Keetah reached instinctively for the weapons she did not carry. "Klingon!"

Senak caught her arm in a punishing grip, swinging her around to the dome. "It is attacking. Run, Keetah!" he yelled. "Get to the hibernation chamber. It is the safest place."

The Klingon craft dipped as its sensors became aware of them. Two brilliant streaks of high-energy light stabbed into the murk, cutting into impacted ice and snow, and sending up a cloud of boiling steam. Senak hesitated at the entrance, shephering her inside, glancing back at the deadly shape even now swooping down on them again like a gigantic bird of prey….

…. And fell, as an actinic blue beam seared through furs and flesh alike. Keetah reacted without thought grabbing Senak and all but throwing him away from the open hatch as another burst of fire lashed furiously scan inches from them. Ignoring the pain, she slid on back and elbows down to the floor of the corridor below, shielding the injured Vulcan as best she could. She was in time…just. A nearby burst of scorching energy lashed over the bubbling ice and snow, crushing the outer hatch like tissue paper. The Klingons were firing indiscriminately, hoping to wipe them out in a barrage of fire.

Barely conscious, Senak moaned deep in his throat. In the reflected blaze of light, Keetah could see him, and her stomach heaved. Dark eyes, lidded by the inner nictitating membrane, stared sightlessly at her, a thin trickle of blood oozing from the charred, blackened ruin of the left side of his face, chest and body; an injury which must have been fatal had he been human; yet still he lived, clinging to life with Vulcan tenacity, unwilling to surrender to unbearable agony.

"Senak?"

He stirred at her desperate cry, the membrane withdrawing as he struggled to focus on her. "Go… Keetah… leave me."

Bright blood frothed over his burnt lips and he choked and coughed, fighting to raise himself. Cradling him protectively in her arms, Keetah gently restrained the movement.

"I will not leave you, for those to find." She indicated the world above, "Can you stand… walk?"

"My injuries are too severe. You must go. There… can be no help for me … and their…sensors are…aware…"

"I will not leave you, Senak. This I have said!"

"Illogical. The … Federation… Sirak…must be warned. Your duty…to survive. Return…Main Base. They…will…will…."

Abrupty the lights wnet out as another explosion rocked the dome. Shadows danced crazily as the floor rose and fell beneath them. They must have taken a direct hit. Keetah forgot everything but the need to get them to a safer place before they were buried alive. Scrambling to her feet, she grabbed Senak's uninjured arm, urging him to his feet, feeling the lean, heavy body shudder and almost collapse at this further demand upon it. Senak gripped her arm in return, face mortally stricken, holding on until his knuckles turned white.

"Lean on me." There was no time to consider Vulcan pride. Only Senak's indomitable will was keeping him on his feet. That would have to suffice for the moment.

"I can…walk."

The started down the corridor, but after only a few steps it was clear that Senak had come to the end of his strength. Pride insisted that he keep going, especially before a human female, but the Vulcan's slender body was failing him. His knees buckled and only Keetah's encircling arm kept him from falling headlong. She cried out, urging him to greater effort…too late.

A fresh shock sent them both sprawling. As Keetah scrabbled to her feet, something crashed down from overhead, tearing Senak out of her arms. She heard him scream "T'Pila, no!" as the corridor collapsed in a welter of falling debris; then a heavy beam caught her forehead a glancing blow.

She could only have been out for a bare minute or two, The wreckage was still settling as Keetah clawed her way frantically to where a twisted, broken thing sprawled like an unwanted, discarded doll. For an endless moment she stared down at what remained of Senak, thought briefly of the others at Main Base. Then slowly she raised her face to the now-buried hatchway. It was impassive, giving no indication of her hearbreak,t he terrible grief and pain she must never voice aloud.

"I am …Apache! I am…Apache!" Keetah said the words over and over through clenched teeth. Again – and for the last time- her eyes slowly roamed over her dead companion – and past him to where sticky, tarlike insul-foam dripped black and viscid down one wall. She reached out, three fingers extended, hesitated momentarily, dipped into the stuff – and drew it swiftly down one cheek.

"There will be an accounting they will never forget, E'dik'e – heart-friend. I, Keetah, Cuchillo's daughter, maid of the Apache, have said this."

Without another glance at the broken body lying behind her amid the debris, Keetah turned and raced as quickly as she dared along the littered corridor to the storage rooms, and through them to her own quarters. There was much she must accomplish – supplies and weapons gathered, a refuge sought – before Klingon blood flowed, but flow it would. Now in all truth she must live as her forebears had done, with the war-lance always to hand.

O0O

5

A collaboration between Marie Hietala and Karracaz

EDITORS' REMARKS (Regarding printed zine)

The Night of the Eagle is a Spock novella. It came to us, literally, by one of those miracles of happenstance that befalls people of our trade from time to time. And while we're proud to present the talent of Marie to American readers, we know we owe thanks aplenty. To Marie, for sharing her adventuresome talent and love for Trek. To Johanna Cantor and Mardi Lamski for their cooperation and hard work. To Suzan Lovett: her illos are spirited and true to the story, and her talent joins with The Night of the Eagle to make it shine all the more.

And this story does shine. Written and illoed by Spock fans, we know it is their hope that all who read it will enjoy!

Ingrid Cross and Joyce Tullock.

Illustrations were by Suzan Lovett

Printed in U.K. as Night of the Wolf.

Copyright May 1985 by Odyssey Press. The Night of the Eagle is an amateur publication and is not intended to infringe on anyone holding copyrights to Star Trek properties. All rights revert to the authors and artist.

O0O


	2. Chapter 2

Night of the Eagle

Chapter Two:

A shuttlecraft faced the Enterprise's huge bay doors when Kirk entered the shuttle deck. Spock and McCoy turned as he came over to them, footsteps echoing hollowly in the cavernous space. A lazy grin played around his mouth, "Ready to go, Mr. Spock?"

"Indeed, Captain. The alterations needed to extend the shuttle's range are complete, thanks to Mr. Scott."

McCoy shook his head. "Still seems a crazy way to spend your vacation to me, Spock. We'll be doing a routine check on Hiemal in a month or so. Can't this trip of yours wait until then?"

"As I have already explained several times before, Doctor, your ideas of a vacation differ from my own. I find it most illogical to waste valuable time in the leisure pursuits so dear to the human heart. The research team on Hiemal has made some startling discoveries. Is it so incredible that I should wish to extend my own knowledge on the subject?"

"Any human, who would pass up R & R on Starbase 13, and after months of having our leave postponed, has to be crazy… but in your case, I'm more than willing to make an exception."

"Why thank you, Doctor McCoy I am pleased that you can see the distinction. Perhaps we have something in common, after all."

"In a pig's eye! Jim, I'll see you up on the bridge."

Kirk grinned as he watched an indignant McCoy stalk away, then sobered. "You're certain that this is what you want to do, Spock? There is still time to change your mind."

"No, I think not, Captain. I told Doctor McCoy the truth. The results of the experiments on Hiemal are indeed fascinating and may prove of inestimable value."

Kirk nodded, only half-convinced. "I hear the team is an all-Vulcan one. Any of them known to you personally?"

Spock paused, startled by the unexpected question. His voice was at its Vulcan coolest when he answered. "The leader of the team, Sirak…is a … relative. My father's cousin…"

"I see," Kirk murmured, aware that Spock was keeping something back but unwilling to probe into his private affairs. If Spock wanted him to know, he'd get around to telling him eventually. "Has Uhura managed to make contact with the base yet?"

"Negative, sir." Spock's expression remained impassive. "However, the climate is extremely unpredictable, and storms have been known to disrupt transmissions in the past."

"Very logical." Kirk's voice held a slight but definite edge, the merest hint of dissatisfaction.

"You disagree, Captain?"

"Unlike you, Mr. Spock, I am completely human. I tend to rely on the promptings of my subconscious."

Spock inclined his head, one eyebrow beginning to rise, and Kirk laughed unenthusiastically, "I know, but I have a feeling about this. It's probably nothing, but there have been several reports of recent Klingon activity in that particular quadrant."

"They do have mining concessions there," Spock pointed out tranquilly. "However, their interests in Hiemal should be minimal. Apart from the team, and the wildlife – which is various, the planet is quite barren, I believe. There are few trace elements, hardly any minerals of value and a minimal amount of base metals…"

Kirk's grin widened as he held up his hand, "All right, Mr. Spock, I get the message. On the other hand, I don't want you taking any chances. If there is trouble, you have my standing order to get the hell out of it – and on the double."

"I shall endeavor to keep that in mind, Captain."

"I'm sure you will, Spock." Kirk's tone remained noticeably dry. He turned to inspect a red light that had begun to flash above them. "That's my signal to depart. Have a good journey, Mr. Spock. We shouldn't be too far behind you if the repairs are completed in time."

"I hope you enjoy your own leave, Captain." Spock's expression continued straight-faced but Kirk thought he could just detect slight warmth beneath the Vulcan exterior. "Base 17 is most – stimulating, or so I have been given to understand."

"You could say that." Kirk's grin turned lascivious. With a wave of his hand, he left Spock in the capable charge of the flight deck crew. As soon as the air lock closed behind him, an order rang out and the heavy doors began to swing open. The shuttlecraft taxied efficiently toward them and soared out into the emptiness beyond.

O0O

The journey took several hours. Hiemal was the second in a system of eight planets circling a spectral Class K5 star. As Spock brought the shuttle in, the planet grew larger on his forward scanners – a world lost in the swirling cloud formations that could only mean another storm wreaked havoc on the surface. Spock hesitated, considering what that could do, and without further deliberation decided to complete another revolution. Settling back in his seat, he opened a channel to the surface.

"Columbus to Hiemal Main Base. Do you read me? Over." There was no reply and considering the storm that lashed the ground below he hadn't really expected one. However, it was only logical to try every alternative. Spock scanned the console, noting fuel consumption: fifteen pounds psi – enough for one complete orbit. Again he reached out and pushed down the switch on the communications panel.

"Spock to Main Base. Spock calling Hiemal research team."

Then it came, bursting through the static: a voice reaching across the blankness of space, "Hiemal Research Base One calling…craft. Your message was garbled; please identify again."

Spock let out his breath in an explosive sigh as his fingers reached quickly for the communications console. "This is the shuttlecraft Columbus, piloted by First Officer Spock of the U.S.S. Enterprise. My situation is critical. I need landing coordinates. Can you supply? Over."

There was a long silence, then another voice came through the static, "…ceived and understood, Columbus. Storm rapidly approaching – must hurry…"

The voice faded, "…tions very poor. That understood?"

"Affirmative, Base One. I am coming down."

Spock transferred the automatic pilot to manual control and began to guide the small craft down towards the hidden world below. Then he was enveloped in a solid blanket of white, the snow wiping out land and sky until his sense of direction was so confused by the drift that Spock had no clear idea of his own whereabouts, let alone that of the base.

"Commander Spock to Base One. I am unable to locate your position. Please transmit the homing signal."

There was no answer. It appeared that he must rely on his own wits and the now relatively useless instruments of the shuttlecraft. He took the craft down, skimming across the endless waste of snow and ice. A curtain of hail spattered across the forward window. Spock stared at the blinding whiteness, frowning in concentration, searching for any and every landmark that might aid him to land safely.

His attention was suddenly attracted by a flashing light on the panel, a warning that radiation from the short end of the spectrum had abruptly increased and was growing stronger. More lights flashed as the radiation count abruptly passed the tolerance level and entered the lethal zone.

A gigantic pit suddenly dropped away, a hole filled with glassy, crystalline slag that was sending his sensors wild. In the centre of the annihilated region was a curdled horror of rock and metal, with blackened areas pointing away from the destruction like mute, accusing fingers. Spock knew then that the research base on Hiemal had ceased to exist days, perhaps even weeks, before his own arrival.

And he was well aware of his own danger even before the gray interceptor climbed to meet him. Whoever they were – and he had few illusions of the interceptor's identity – they knew that his own situation was critical; he'd told them so himself. The shuttle was unarmed, his options limited. Flight was the only answer, however ignominious that appeared. While he still had fuel there was always a chance that something could intervene to improve his own prospects.

Hauling the nose of the shuttle around in a tight circle, Spock headed directly for the oncoming storm. Coolly, and with a skill he had almost forgotten, he began to zigzag wildly, dodging the actinic blue spears lashing at him in the growing murk heading for the higher ground where it might be possible to lose the shadow dogging his every move.

The craft jerked and shuddered, and for a moment, the beat of the engines failed. They picked up again, but slowly, sluggishly. He banked sharply as two parallel lines of blue light speared through the whirling snow, but a sickening jolt behind him and the sudden loss of response told Spock he'd been hit again, and much more seriously this time.

Spinning madly end over end, the shuttlecraft plummeted sown, blackening rapidly as it plunged out of control toward the ground. Pressure exploded against Spock's senses and he flung up his arms to shield his face and head as the craft slammed into the snow, plowing through the packed ice like a child's spinning toy until it came to a stop, the power nacelles crushed beyond use or recognition.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Night of the Eagle

Chapter Three:

Keetah froze, eyes searching the skies at the sound. It came again, a deep throb of straining engines. Heart tripping against her ribs, she scooped handfuls of snow, throwing them over the rough sled cobbled together from animal hides and the flexible lengths of tubing snatched up in her flight from the ruined dome – just enough to break the sled's outline – then a quick, practiced roll into the lee of a snowdrift for herself. Across the lowering sky flashed an unmistakable shape: a Federation shuttlecraft!

It yawed and dipped, fighting to stay aloft, a long plume of greasy black smoke whipping against the wind. Whoever was at the controls was a master pilot, she thought vaguely, watching the silent battle intently.

Another vessel flashed into view, and Keetah's lips thinned back against teeth gritted in an unconscious grimace of hatred. The Klingons were making sure of their latest victim. Silently she willed the unknown Federation pilot to lift his damaged craft into the foothills. There were treacherous currents and unpredictable updrafts in there, as the Klingons had discovered by the simple expedient of losing two vessels. The crews had not survived, thanks to her.

Almost as if the pilot had heard her plea, the shuttle turned with agonizing slowness, limping for the saw-tooth ranges. The Klingon ship veered off sharply, climbing for altitude. Twin pencils of incandescence shot from it and struck the fleeing ship, ripping away the entire stern section. It plummeted down.

Pursuer and pursued alike vanished, and an ear-torturing crash echoed throughout the M'aco sica – the badlands. With a final burst of spiteful fire, the Klingon interceptor screamed by overhead and Keetah threw herself down, digging frantically into the soft, yielding snow, flesh cringing away from the expected attack.

Nothing happened and she sat up cautiously, scraping snow away from mask and goggle. The nearest surface flat enough to risk a landing was several miles ot the west – and their powered sleds could cover that distance in a matter of minutes. For a moment she hesitated, the age-old instincts of her race strong in her. There was no tie of blood or kinship between her and that unknown in the wrecked craft. And perhaps the pilot was already dead … he along with the crew he perhaps carried. But… Senak had tasked her with the duty to warn the Federation of the Klingon threat; that duty weighed heavily on her now. That and the convention, which said you did not leave even your worst enemy to fall into Klingon hands.

She slipped, slid, and clawed her way down into a knife-sharp valley, up over another rise, the sled jumping and jouncing behind her, then paused a moment to don snowshoes; no sense being buried in a drift. Keetah was panting for breath, a tight ribbon of fire about her ribs, when she finally slid over the lip of a small depression to stare down into a slightly larger valley. The shuttle had not exploded, but that anyone could have survived a crash that had produced that tangle of wreckage…She shook her head and turned away, sick at heart. For one single moment, she had foolishly permitted herself to hope…

Her head snapped to the right. Below her, the coughing snarl came again: a Lur – and it was hunting a fresh trail. In one movement she whipped out the oiled gut and strung her bow, reaching over her shoulder and knocking an arrow – an arrow with a glittering, wickedly barbed head tipped with a smoky brown substance – and scrambled down from her perch.

You could kill a Lur with a phaser – if you had the nerve to stand your ground as four hundred and fifty pounds of clawed and fanged death hurtled at you. For Keetah it had proved far safer, and faster, to use the virulent poison of the indigo fungus that grew in widely isolated patches.

Eyes slitted against the snow that spattered her goggles, Keetah searched out the Hiemal predator. She found it, gigantic white bulk just a shadow against white snow, crouched and ready to spring. Even as she saw it, the animal charged its prey, snarl scaling up into a high, blood-chilling wail. She had a quick, confused glimpse of a stumbling figure, then nothing but a wild flurry of snow as the two protagonists rolled over and over in a struggle where the outcome was only too certain… unless…

"Ahhhhuuuuu!"

The ancient apache war cry that had once sounded across half a world to ice the blood ripped just as freezingly through the chill breath of Hiemal. A serpentine head rose, turning in her direction – and she had the target she sought. There was a shrill whistling and the Lur patted impotently at the slender shaft buried in its throat. The animal lurched unsteadily towards her, the narrow head weaving from side to side, then crashed into the snow. A great fountain of blood gushed from its mouth.

Keetah knocked another arrow, though she knew it was unnecessary, and slogged at the best pace she could manage across the packed snow to that ominously still man-shape.

A blast of wind shrieked by overhead and she glanced up hastily. Banks of grey-black clouds were rolling up the sky with frightening speed, leeching the already dim light from the sky. Blanket-storm, coming fast; Keetah chewed on fear. She peered at the stranger, barely able to see his outline in the worsening weather conditions. Swiftly she dragged the sled alongside, rolling him onto it with scant attention to his hurts. A low moan rewarded her hasty efforts, a reassuring sound. At least he was still alive, she thought, as she nimbly lashed rawhide thongs about him, tying him securely to the sled. Keetah had all the Apache's inborn aversion to touching the dead.

With growing unease, she glanced at the racing clouds. The wind was a howling torment, the storm not far behind. At least she need no longer fear the Klingons. The whipping snow would shortly bury them if they did not immediately seek the shelter of their base, and their powered sleds would be useless. Unstringing her bow, she tucked the cord back in her furs, slung it over her shoulder and leaned into the ropes.

Step by step she fought her way across the valley, into the part protection of the gorge that wound and twisted and looped back on itself. Without ceremony, she decanted her passenger before the boulder that hid the mouth of the cave she had found. She shucked the ropes, weaving on rubbery legs, each ragged breath burning like acid in her raw throat. With the last of her strength, she managed to claw aside the great boulder before heaving the unconscious man inside the pitch-black cave. Hastily, Keetah checked that he still breathed then bundled him in furs. The need to reclaim the dead Lur meant she had little time to be kind. The animal carcass would provide both fur and meat – and she must race a blanket-storm to retrieve it.

The stranger from the Federation shuttle had no warm clothing, no food or medical supplies, and the hunting had been poor lately. Only what she could backpack from the dome had she taken, and now that scanty hoard must serve for two. The Lur was a gift she dared not ignore – even to treat his wounds.

Single-mindedly, she set off for the wrecked shuttle, taking the trip as slowly as she dared, knowing the return journey would tax her strength to the utmost. The Lur lay where it had fallen, almost buried under the falling snow, and she blessed the storm that kept Hiemal's other predators safely denned.

Her big knife flashed as she skinned and gutted with the skill of necessity and experience. In short order, the jointed carcass was wrapped in bloody hide and securely lashed to the sled. It proved essential to stop often to brush the snow from her goggles as she retraced her path – and there came a moment of stark terror when she believed she had missed the entrance to the gorge. The snow built inch by inch. By the time the storm blew itself out, the gorge would be hidden behind ten meters of rock-hard ice and precipitation. If the Klingons did manage to trace the downed Federation vessel, they would never find this passage, would have to dig through endless drifts to the shuttle. Keetah did not believe they would try. Nothing could survive a blanket-storm on the wolf-world unprotected.

Again, she struggled with the boulder in front of the cave entrance, dragged the laden sled inside and rolled the stone back. Afterward, she fell rather than sank to her knees, head hanging, breath sobbing in her ears; but she must not rest now, lest she wake to find herself sharing this place with a corpse.

The thought brought Keetah to her feet, sent her weaving over to the peat moss already waiting. She pawed clumsily with mittened fingers for the phaser clipped to her belt. Orange flame sprang up with a greedy crackle and for a few moments she crouched over the blaze. Then she picked up a burning twig, touching it to twists of pulp from the oil weeds, embedded in melted fat saturated with herbs to lessen the stench. Once, twice, three times she touched the twig to her improvised lamps, then wearily peeled off her outer furs.

Dragging herself to her feet, she lit a final lamp, and holding it high above him, stooped for her first clear view of the man she had rescued.

The shock of that first glance had her reeling. Vulcan!

"Sirak?" Even as she whispered the name, Keetah knew this was not the absent leader of her murdered team. This man was young, years younger than Sirak, and of a slimmer build. There were beads of sweat on his face, though when she touched fingers to flesh it was ice-cold. Infection: the Lur were eater of carrion when nothing else was available. Swiftly she set a small pot of melted snow on the tripod over the fire, adding herbs and chopped leaves from the pouches rolled in a strip of hide.

Keetah drew back the furs, her touch much gentler this time, and caught her underlip between her teeth. A sweet, fresh aroma rose to battle the heavy stench of melted fat, snow-drenched furs, and burning peat. Repeatedly, she laved the terrible wounds she found on the Vulcan's chest and shoulders, using the point of a scalpel-thin blade to lift away pieces of embedded blue shirt. Most of it hung in tatters, but enough remained for her to puzzle out the insignia, and she sucked in a deep breath, eyes widening in astonished surmise.

What was a Federation starship office doing here? Where was his ship? What of the Vulcan supply ship: Sirak aboard, already on its way? Was his ship aware of the presence of Klingons on Hiemal?

Only this man knew the answers, but… the wounds he bore! Keetah swallowed knowing what she must do. Revulsion crawled along her nerves. But she was not a descendant of Magnus Colorado or Victorio for nothing. Raking through the fire, Keetah found what she sought, dipped clean cloths in the pan until they were thoroughly soaked in the herb mixture, then gingerly teased a red-hot scale of rock into the bundle. Holding it firmly by the corners, she drew one shaky, unsteady breath and pressed it down onto that gaping wound.

The long, slim body arched in a soundless spasm of agony and she fought with all her strength to hold him down without releasing her grip on the rock. The acrid stench of burning flesh filled the cave and Keetah coked and coughed, tears streaming down her face. For endless seconds, the unconscious Vulcan convulsed, a thin ululation of pure agony hissing between his teeth. Then he slumped slightly, Keetah felt hurriedly for a pulse and sand back, trembling, when she found it.

To an inexperienced eye, the burned flesh with rills of green blood welling up looked worse than the original wounds, but Keetah was not inexpert. She had burned out the filth, whatever shreds of uniform and other uncleanness had been driven deep – and this man was strong, a Vulcan, able to withstand far more than a human.

Lastly, she spread a paste of herbs and other simples onto a clean cloth and skillfully wound bandages about his lean chest. That done, she wrapped him tightly in the furs once more, wiped sweat form his brow and buried soiled clothes and blood-stained water in the pocket of earth she had earlier discovered in the far corner of the cave.

Aching from weariness, she strung a fat haunch over the fire for smoking and carried the rest of the meat to the very back of the cave. With an injured man to be nursed and a blanket-storm raging without, there would be time to smoke it all. Cutting a fillet from the last piece and wrapping it in seaweed, she set it at the edge of the fire to cook gently through the night.

Notching holes in the edges of the Lur fur, she pinned it to a rawhide frame, fur side inwards, and doused the frame thoroughly. The rawhide would shrink, stretching the hide neatly and evenly. A shoulder blade from a grazer vaguely resembling a Terran yak made an adequate scraper; rock salt mixed with special herbs, a good tanner. And the scraping, at least, she must begin.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Night of the Eagle

Chapter Four:

The howling of the storm was a hushed murmur, the steady inch-by-inch scraping of the fur noiseless. Keetah nearly jumped out of her skin when the hacking cough broke the silence. She whirled, a striking snake, knife out and ready.

The Vulcan coughed again, a harsh, dry sound, and a thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. Keetah's earlier fear returned. She stooped over him. Breathing without the protecting facemask meant breathing in ice crystals that would bring swift lung disorders and almost certain death. And this man had been endless, fatal minutes outside. Nor had he undergone the rigorous conditioning needed to sustain his race against the biting cold of Hiemal wolf-world.

Moving the furs aside, she pressed her ear to the exposed chest, and the sound she most dreaded to hear was there: an ominous dry rustling crackle. A wave of primitive, superstitious terror swept her. Whether she willed it or no, she was going to share her cave with a dead man. Apache custom and teaching insisted she put him outside – now, before he died. She would be defiled, unclean, if she laid hand to the dead. Shivering a little, Keetah forced her mind away from tradition. There was a slim chance, and she could not be alone again with the ghosts of her fallen teammates; she could not.

Much would depend on his will to live, on the strength in the long, hard body. Resolutely ignoring the little voice shrilling and hammering unspeakable horrors, she dragged and tugged heavy rocks, breaking nails and tearing fingers bloody to build a low rampart about the sleeping furs.

Grimly she stripped furs and the rest of the Vulcan's clothes away and wrapped him in the still wet folds of the strung up, green hide, ignoring the sound of his continuous coughing, the deadly trickle of blood seeping from his lips with every labored breath.

Steadily she raised the phaser, set it on maximum and methodically blasted the low barricade. The backlash of heat drove her reeling across the cave to crouch with her arms over her face and head against the furthermost wall. For uncounted minutes, the heat beat at her before subsiding to a more bearable level.

Judging from the heat in the cave, the temperature now hovered somewhere near Vulcan norm, and she thought the rocks could stand another raying before crumbling into useless dust. Nothing in the small medical kit she had was of any use for this. Main Base had the necessary drugs and equipment, but Main Base was gone. Nothing remained there but a curdled nightmare of melted rock and metal. And five Vulcans.

Keetah pushed away that thought. To say their names, even to think of them, was forbidden. She must keep the pain and grief within decent bounds until she had fulfilled her vow. That was why no one ever spoke the names of the unavenged aloud; best she did not even think of them. But it was so hard – White Painted Lady, it was so hard.

It took all her will and concentration to open her hid bundle. Once more she made a selection of leaves, unhealthy-looking moss, and herbs. Thinking only of what she was doing, Keetah shredded each piece finely, dropped it into the freshly cleaned pot and set it at the back of the fire to steep.

Not for the first time, she felt an overwhelming surge of love and gratitude to Cuchillo, Shaman of the Eagle People and her father, for the challenging months and years he had patiently devoted to teaching her the herbal lore of the Apache nation.

Pagan sorcery, the pale-faced pinda-lick-o-yi invaders into the ancestral lands – had called it. But the white-eyes had not known everything. Those seemingly childish remedies often worked where their more sophisticated medicines and drugs failed. That had been truth over four hundred years ago: it was still truth, though the panda-lick-o-yi no longer sneered or doubted.

When the mixture was ready, then… then she would balance the old knowledge against new once more. Keetah laughed softly, laughed again, aware she was behaving disgracefully, uncaring since there was none here to witness. Only within the tightly knit bond of family and kin did Apache ever display emotion.

Her potion, a rather nauseating shade of rusty brown, was ready. Keetah dipped a finger, touched it to tongue tip, and nodded in satisfaction. It was use this or condemn the unconscious Vulcan to certain death, for she had no specific Vulcan medicine in the things she had salvaged from Main Base.

It was necessary to prop his head up; then she needs must straddle the limp body, it being impossible to stand near the glowing rocks. She eyed him with a mixture of repressed exasperation for the obligation he had unwittingly imposed on her and a deep-seated, profound relief that she was no longer alone without dalaanbiyat'i - an ally on the wolf-world.

Apache clung to family and clan. To move apart as she had done, driven by her thirst for knowledge, was to die a little death. Sirak, the other Vulcans, had accepted her as colleague and equal, asking nothing she did not choose to give freely, respecting her customs and beliefs even when they could not share them. For all their alien ways, she had felt akin to them. The quest for knowledge had led her to strange worlds and stranger companions, and she had been content that this should be so. To be alone again – that she could no longer endure.

Drop by drop she fed the unconscious Vulcan the bitter draught, not daring to give more lest she choke him. Finally, she paused, bathed in perspiration, half a cup remaining. There would be no sleep for her this night . He was no longer coughing so frequently, the burning rocks and the heat in the untreated fur that of mid-summer on Vulcan, easing the strain on laboring lungs. But he also needed the inner heat the brew would provide, that the ice crystals in his lungs be absorbed the more speedily.

Hour followed dragging hour as Keetah nodded over the fire, jerking awake repeatedly to force another few drops down his throat. It began to assume the proportions of a monstrous dream. Slide one drop, two, between his lips, tilt his head back, massage his throat - for the intervals when he swallowed automatically were few and far between - persevere until another half-cupful was gone. Keetah would then stagger over to the fire, reheat the medicine, fight the numbing urge to sleep, before following the entire sequence of events again.

Towards morning the dry cough finally stopped. When she pressed her ear to his chest, the crackling rustle was still present, but she could doubt no more. It was easing. His breathing changed even as she listened, slowing, the lines of pain fading magically as she watched. Shaking with relief and exhaustion, Keetah stared down at the now peaceful face. He had managed to initiate the healing trance.

The furs and their occupant were a wavering blur and the phaser dipped and trembled in unsteady fingers. Somehow she was able to focus her eyes long enough to ignite the rocks again. Dragging herself across the cave on rubbery legs, Keetah slumped onto the furs she had earlier spread. The last thing she remembered before sleep finally claimed her were the waves and waves of heat and how strange it felt to be hot on the wolf-world.

She woke from a dream in which she rode the deserts of her home, wild and free, the sun burning overhead. The storm had not yet blown itself out, she noted as she padded softly over to the Vulcan. There was no change in the wound when she lifted a corner of the bandages, but the crackling rustle had faded still more. Only by pressing her ear to his chest and listening intently could she even hear it.

"Yat-ta-hay, that is very good." He did not wake and it was high time she attended to her own needs. First she must eat: the meat proved soft and juicy in its protective seaweed. She chewed on it ravenous with hunger. Afterwards she put snow in a pan with a niggardly spoonful of powdered leaves added. While that heated, she decided to bathe. Keetah did not enjoy the present state of her person. Dirty, covered in sweat and dried blood, her own smell disgusted her.

The crudely primitive steam lodge she had constructed out of tanned grazer hides over green sticks. A handful of soapweed, the last of the melted snow, and a red-hot stone was all she needed. After using the bone scrape that just fitted her hand, she allowed ten minutes to luxuriate in the heat.

Later she would bathe the Vulcan, see to his other needs. For now, rest was essential. Her herb tea was ready, and as as she sipped it slowly, she planned. A couple of days to smoke the meat, and during that time she would fashion clothing for him. The smaller furs would do for gloves and boots, and there was her sky-blue woolen shirt with its vivid black, orange and red designs hand-woven far away on Mistai'ai. As with all Apache garments, it was loose, billowy, needing a belt at the waist to confine it, and it would fit the slimly built Vulcan. There was the spare thermal suit she had brought from the dome, planning to alter it later. And when she had tanned and prepared the Lur-skin, he would have outdoor wear.

Food was going to be a problem. Apache had thrived on lands so harsh other races starved to death there. She could survive on meat alone… but this Vulcan could not eat flesh, he would not. And the stores she had brought with her…Keetha's eyes went to the bundles on a high, rocky shelf. They had been meant to tide her over when the hunt was bad, as it so frequently proved. That they would suffice him…she did not believe it.

He would need hot food and plenty of it; far more than he was accustomed to eating. Hiemal sucked vitality from the body, leeching strength and energy, and he was already weak. There was seaweed, when one could find it along the shores of the great frozen ocean stretching endlessly to the east; mosses; certain types of fungi; reeds boiled and pounded ot remove corrosive and toxic elements; a few berries but no fruits; nothing resembling vegetation.

Kindling a row of peat fires along one wall, sprinkling herbs to impart a delicate favor to the meat, Keetah strung the joints up on thongs. That done, she settled down cross-legged in front of her own small fire with furs, bone needles, sinews, her big hunting knife - she had no awl and had to use it to punch holes in the skins that she might sew them together. With one brief pause to measure hand and foot, she worked steadily, halting only when gloves and boots were ready.

Whether it was now day or night, she had no way of knowing. To venture out into a blanket-storm was to court a death that would flay still-living flesh from bone. Her inner time sense indicated it was late perhaps night. No matter; time had no meaning in the secure fastness of the cave.

Best she see to the Vulcan. Resignedly she climbed into her outer furs. To go outside, that was madness; to bring a little of the storm inside was one way to replenish the melted snow.

All of her store, save one tiny pocket had melted in the above-hundred heat needed to save the Vulcan's life. Even through the massive boulder, Keetah could feel as well as hear the storm. Taking a deep breath, she tugged it forcibly to one side, the snow banked outside making it all but impossible to shift it more than a bare inch or two - which was all she needed.

A shrieking maelstrom of whit-drift blasted into the cave, almost drowning out the howl of the wind. Once the rock was back in position, there was a hillock of snow taller than herself to be shoveled into a far corner. Panting, Keetah shed her furs, breathing deeply of the sharp, clean air, which, for a moment, overwhelmed the other stenches.

The floor of the cave sloped into a deep hollow by the sleeping furs. Pile snow in there, add a heated rock, and she would have near-boiling water. Keetah hefted the phaser uneasily. Twice now she had recharged it, and there were only four charges remaining. She had not forgotten the snow packed gorge or the path she would need to melt through it. If there had only been more time. She had taken only those things that would betray the presence of a human on the wolf-world, her possessions; the supply of herbs, fungi, the medicines she had collected and tested over the past two years; the weapons she had made; furs; for the rest, tools and supplies the Klingons would not readily notice were missing.

Sirak had ordered the team armed, much against Vulcan custom and belief. Predators had early been attracted to their bases and venturing out unarmed was to invite a swift death. Those in the Vulcan team had disliked the order but accepted the unpleasant necessity with Vulcan sang-froid. Respecting their reverence for life as they respected her own beliefs, Keetah had taken upon herself the task of discouraging the prowling hunters.

Keetah smiled faintly. Sirak had disapproved but was unable to deny she was the best suited for the task – just as she had been the best at trapping and snaring the animals they needed for their research. Try as he might, Sirak had not been able to find a logical reason forbidding her exploits – though he had tried.

Another phaser, more charges would have been useful, but she had her own reasons for preferring the weapons she had made rather than a more modern arsenal. And she knew without false pride that a lifetime of use and training in those weapons of the Apache made her a formidable and deadly opponent – as many luckless Klingons had already learned in the weeks since she had fled the devastated lab. As more would learn in the future, she vowed as she went about her preparations with the quiet efficiency natural to her.

The Vulcan was a mess, covered from head to foot in green and red blood, sweat and dirt. It took time, most of the hot water and a good lathering of soapweed to get him clean.; the green hide was soaked before she had finished. That would make it softer, easier to cure, Keetah thought as she dressed him, lifting each limp and heavy limb before sliding the blue shirt over his head and tying it loosely at the Vulcan's slim waist. The neck thongs she left undone, having sacrificed an inner garment to replace soiled and stained bandages.

Finished at last, she subjected him to a minute examination. He remained deep in the healing trance. With complete detachment, she slapped him briefly, but stingingly across the cheek. There was no response; not that she had really expected any. He would need perhaps another full night and day for the trance to complete its healing. At least she need not sit up with him this night.


	5. Chapter 5

Night of the Eagle

Chapter Five:

The cold brought him around – that and the eldritch whine of the drift-wind whirling flakes of snow over his head and shoulders. Spock lay where he had fallen forward, climbing painfully out of the darkness, surprised to find that he stilled lived. He pulled in a shaky breath and the freezing air hurt his throat, ripping like knives in his straining lungs. Incuriously he watched the ice crystals forming on the walls of the shuttle, creeping inexorably towards him, and knew if he did not move, and that speedily, he would die, frozen in a metal tomb.

Forcing himself to his feet, he lurched towards the hatch, wrenching at it with numb fingers. But it was jammed and he no longer had the strength to force it. Belatedly, his senses swimming, he remembered the window broken in the crash and stumbled awkwardly back It seemed to take an eternity to reach it, but eventually he managed to push himself out feet first and drop into the snow. Ony then, as he stood shivering in the biting cold, did Spock know there was no place for him to go.

"…get the hell out of there, Mr. Spock. Don't want you taking any chances… …"

Something moved within the blanketing whiteness. Spock looked up dully…straight into feral, hungry eyes. White bulk against white snow, and even as he saw it, the animal charged – a high, wailing snarl torturing sensitive ears; shock, agony as claws and fangs tore at his chest and shoulder; a flurry of snow, then nothingness.

"… told you it was a crazy way to spend your vacation, Spock. Told you… toldyoutoldyoutoldyou…."

O0o

Keetah had the Lur-hide cut, the pieces ready for stitching, a pot of vegetable stew simmering at the back of the fire, when the sound she had been waiting for came at last: a low moan, so faint it might have passed unnoticed had she not been listening for it. The Vulcan moaned again. She studied him for the space of two breaths; nodded to herself, and slapped him with all her strength, the blows rocking his head back and forth.

Sooner even than she expected, a hand grabbed her wrist and weakly, the Vulcan whispered, "Enough…"

For a moment longer, she waited. Dark eyes, still bemused and dazed, stared uncomprehendingly up at her until a flicker of intelligent awareness stirred to life. Keetah gently withdrew her arm from his grasp. With a hand at his nape she raised his head, held a mug of water to his parched and blistered lips.

Speaking with clear distinctness she said, "You are safe here. Sleep now and we will speak together when you have rested sufficiently."

He nodded acceptance, eyes closing wearily. Keetah tucked his arm back under the furs and returned to her sewing. If all had gone well, he would sleep for an hour or two, and then there would be speech between them. To be alone, that was not the Apache way; to live as she had been forced to do was to skirt madness. Only the thought of Sirak, the unarmed and unsuspecting Vulcan supply ship, had kept her going. No longer alone on the wolf-world, the weight of a burden she had not fully understood until that moment lifted from her.

That he was Vulcan – Keetah pondered the thought. It was both good and bad, she finally decided. Good, for she need not sleep with one eye open, unsheathed knife ready to hand, as might have been the case were he human. Bad, for the Vulcan ideal of non-violence might prove a formidable handicap, one impossible to overcome, if she was to carry out her plan of vengeance.

To venture into the heavily fortified Klingon garrison without disposing of as many ndendai – enemy – as she could was madness. She must warn Sirak – the Federation. With two to stalk and ambush, the odds against her plan succeeding correspondingly lowered. But would the Vulcan agree to turn hunter?

There was the matter of his own vessel, of course; a starship, no less, fully armed and more than capable of handling both the garrison and the cargo freighter, which would soon be arriving – if she had correctly understood the fragments of conversation she had overheard while scouting the garrison. A starship – and it, too, unwarned. Much would depend on the strong Vulcan sense of loyalty. Keetah wove plans as her bone needle continued to weave thread into fur.

O0o

It hurt to breathe and his left shoulder and chest were a blazing torment. Spock opened his eyes and stared at a low, rocky ceiling. He turned his head slowly to one side - another rock wall. This was clearly not sickbay.

The memories returned sluggishly… the research team on Hiemal…Klingon interceptor…the crash. An animal had appeared abruptly in the whirling snow and brought him down….

He hazily recalled a human face, odd in some fashion he could not quite identify. Again, he studied the rock walls searching for some clue as to his whereabouts, became aware of the animal hides and furs, other objects he recognized as ancient weapons, hanging there. A bow and arrows, a ferocious looking hand axe, skin pouches and different sized bundles festooned the walls. Light from a series of small fires reflected off pots, plates, mugs - a row of sharp knives…

Only slowly did his gaze come to rest on the other occupant of the cave, seated cross-legged beside yet another small, bright fire. Wide, dark eyes regarded him calmly from a high-cheek-boned face. Spock's fascinated gaze took in the generous mouth, short, straight nose, and determined chin along with the long, blue-black braids wound with colorful beads. Though he was unused to evaluating feminine charms, he thought she would no doubt be accounted beautiful by the standards of many red-blooded males, his Captain and Doctor McCoy among them… except for the thick black stripes that marred the left side of her face. He wondered at their significance. Maybe they had some cultural … or tribal import. Her apparel – fringed buckskins, the shirt belted loosely over the trousers, moccasins of the same fabric – suggested the garb of a native Earth North Amerindian, circa 1860. That idea also fitted the shirt he presently wore, the weapons – including the big knife in a beaded sheath the girl wore at her side - the smoking meat, and the furs. Hiemal certainly had no indigenous population. Could she be a visitor, a guest of the research team?

During his examination, the steady, unflinching gaze of those dark eyes did not waver, nor did she speak. So, he cleared his throat, and after a moment managed to huskily articulate, "I… am Spock. If I may enquire… as to your name, and the whereabouts of this place?"

"I am Keetah, Cuchillo's daughter. You crashed in the Mako-s'ica, the badlands. I found you and brought you here."

"The badlands?"

"The hill country. It is very dangerous to those who do not know it well." She spoke coolly, making light of a task Spock realized could not have been easy for one of such slender build and small stature. Yet behind the calm exterior, he could sense a profound sadness, a forcible suppression of powerful emotions.

"The Klingons…?"

"Will not find us here," she interjected abruptly. She came over to him, her hands quick and deft but gentle as she removed bandages and eased cloths away from his wounds. The waist-length braids and soft buckskins gave off a faint, piquant fragrance that he slowly identified as the smell of leather and herbs.

Spock closed his eyes, submissive as she bathed his injuries, protesting only when she busied herself with some gear of her own, taking a number of salves from a hide-wrapped bundle.

"Further unguents will be unnecessary," he sternly objected.

"Your opinion is noted." Her tone remained respectful but quite firm. Spock knew that without the strength to enforce his wishes, any further argument would avail him nothing. The salves she applied burned and stung, and then settled down to a pleasant numbness. With a supreme effort, he pushed himself up on one elbow, feeling his wounds pull as the soft fabric of the shirt he wore rubbed against the dressings.

Keetah noticed his look. "Your own shirt could not be mended. The Lur fight well. You also fought well. There are not many who walk away from such an encounter."

Spock privately agreed, but he did not intend to wear her shirt.

"It will not show beneath these," she touched the small pile of furs beside her.

"You made these garments?"

"That is so. There is also a spare thermal suit." Keetah watched his face in the flickering shadows cast by the lamps and fires, guessing at some of his thoughts as he stared about him. Such opinions as he held were not new. They had been verbalized with varying degrees of tact to her: barbarian, primitive, throwback, savage: words used to hurt and degrade, and behind them a grudging respect. The Apache had fought ruthlessly, viciously, under war chiefs like Geronimo, Cochise, and perhaps the greatest of them all, Magnus Colorado, to stem the white tide sweeping across their ancestral lands – bloody wars lasting decades with no quarter given from either side. Yet, the clans survived, denying the culture the Pinda-lick-o-yi sought to impose on them.

"Where is your ship, Mr. Spock? Why are you alone here?"

Simple questions, logical, but Spock had no quick or easy answers. He had in fact hoped to gain information, not impart it. He told her what he knew, his tone dry, "I was…disturbed… by the lack of communications. My ship, the Enterprise, is undergoing repairs at Starbase 17. They will rendezvous with me here in four-point-two-three weeks. I am at a loss to interpret the Klingon attack, although they do have a tendency to strike first and ask questions after the event. I can only speculate they do not want the destruction of the research facility to become known. Perhaps you know more…"

The spark of hope extinguished in Keetah at Spock's news of the Enterprise, but she nodded, "It is so."

Before he could ask anything further, she hurried on, "I am…was…the biochemist on the team. When the attack began, myself and another team-member were on duty at the hibernation labs. He died from his injuries. I escaped but …. Main Base was… no longer there. The attacks must have been simultaneous."

"You were the only survivor?"

"It seems so. I found this cave months ago when I was setting traps for the animals needed in our work. It has remained undetected … so far."

"And the reason for the attacks?"

At first, Keetah had seen no motive for the sudden destruction of the Vulcan research facility. Primarily motivated toward conquest, Hiemal wolf-world was useless for their needs. She found the answer literally under her nose, her very closeness blinding her to the obvious. She picked up a small bowl, took a piece of dark blue fungus from a nearby shelf, and placed them both beside Spock. The bowl was full of a thick, viscid substance. Spock examined the items curiously, awaiting her explanation.

"A fast acting nerve poison for which there is no known antidote. It can be extracted from this," she indicated the fungus. "It grows in widely isolated patches only on Hiemal. It is a mutation unknown elsewhere. I have tested it thoroughly and… Sirak confirmed my results. Once distilled, the poison is a hundred times more deadly than that of the Le-matya on your world. How the Klingons learned of this, I do not know. What they intend doing with it requires little guesswork or imagination."

Spock nodded, "If the Klingons synthesize the fungus and produce it in bulk, no Federation world would be safe. Are you aware of the viability rating?"

"I know only that it is a neurotoxin, attacking through the respiratory system and causing death in minutes. And those minutes are not pleasant."

"The effects are selective, of course…"

"Doxa-da – this is not so. It strikes indiscriminately against all living organisms. There is no cure."

The more Spock considered this news, the less he cared for the implications. There had to be a way to warn the Enterprise. If he couldn't Captain Kirk was going to fly right into the middle of a major crisis.

Keetah studied him. "Our supply vessel will already be on its way from Vulcan. It is unarmed. We must warn them of the Klingon threat."

She put the bowl carefully away before returning to the fireside. She ladled soup into a bowl. This Spock of Vulcan was partway committed now, but little could be done until he was up on his feet again – a process she hoped with his constitution and strength would not be long delayed. She raised his head gently, placed a rolled up fur behind him, then knelt to feed him, ignoring the expected protest. He took a sip or two, before turning his head aside.

"You have a subspace radio?"

"It was at Main Base. The Klingons have one."

"Are you suggesting we storm their base?" Spock's tone was drily ironic as he considered the idea. Two people, one of them a human female, and – judging from the acute discomfort in his chest and shoulder – a partly crippled Vulcan, against a highly trained and well-armed Klingon force.

"You wish to warn the Enterprise, the Federation. I too, have a debt to settle." Keetah's fingers crept to brush the stripes on her cheek. "Is it not logical we combine our joint ambitions?"

"I am not about to start a war, Miss Keetah."

"It has already begun, Mr. Spock." Keetah rejoined.

"Indeed."

In all truth it was amazing the amount of disapproval that could be squeezed into a single word. For a fleeting second Keetah was vividly reminded of Sirak… the only member of the Vulcan team left. He, too, would be at the mercy of the Klingons as he traveled back from Vulcan on the supply ship, totally unaware of what awaited him.

"The Klingons rest uneasily on the wolf-world." Keetah abruptly brok the taut silence. "They fear… with good reason."

"Vengeance is mine, I will repay, saith the Lord," Spock murmured almost inaudibly.

Usually slow to anger, Keetah's retort was hot and quick, "Tell me not where vengeance lies, Spock of Vulcan. What has the god of the Pinda-lick-o-yi – the white eyes – to do with me – or you? Without my help, the garrison is inaccessible. Reflect on that when the Klingons shoot down your Enterprise, decimate Federation worlds with their plague. Then tell me again of this god who will repay Keetah for what has been taken."

Spock recalled things he had read about the ancient Amerindians. Wounded as he was, he could not deny his chances of reaching the Klingon garrison - much less using their subspace radio and getting away safely again - were minimal. But whatever the cost, the Federation had to be warned; the Federation – and Jim.

"What do you propose?"

His abrupt compliance lifted a weight from Keetah's shoulders. "It can be…it will be done. I, Keetah, Cuchillo's daughter, have said this." Without further ado, she proceeded to outline most, but not all, of her plan to him. Enough, she decided at last. Let him now balance death against death, accept that he had no choice. She was too fully aware of the Vulcan philosophy of IDIC to take pleasure in this bending him to her needs, but such things must wait for the present. The beads of sweat on forehead and upper lip belied the impassive face he showed her.

She brought the mug gently steaming from the fire and raised his head. "Drink. You must sleep if you are to regain your strength. This will aid your recovery."

And she knew she was correct when he accepted without murmur. Wishing him a restful night, Keetah sought her own furs.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

Spock slept badly, his dreams full of the terror that would come as world after world was stripped of all life. He woke with a start, backbone damp with the sweat of dread. Renewed pain in his wounds and apprehension made further sleep impossible.

Keetah was swiftly at his side, kneeling to raise his head, another cup of that noxious brew held to his lips. Spock drank, observing as she curled up in her own furs, instantly asleep. When he shifted restlessly, trying to find a comfortable position, the dark eyes flashed open, regarded him for a moment, and drooped shut again. She appeared to have the ability to sleep as easily and lightly as a cat waking with the same speed and alertness - an enviable trait

Untroubled by doubts, the plan she had conceived was straightforward and, he had to concede reluctantly, quite logical. Coming to sit Indian-style beside his rude bed, she had drawn a simple map in the dirt at her feet, explaining what she intended to do – with or without his help. It needed caution, she admitted readily when he voiced his reservations. There were sentries posted around the garrison, scouting parties on powered sleds, the constant menace of the interceptors patrolling the skies.

Whatever the risks they must be faced. A heavily armed freighter would arrive to collect the fungus, and it could not be permitted to reach its destination. Spock mulled the problem over; trying to put himself in the place of the Klingons, assess how they would behave. He concluded that greed might well be their vulnerable point. The freighter would not leave orbit with its holds barely full – logically it would wait until all the fungus had been harvested.

Keetah agreed with suspicious promptness, adding blandly, "If my information is correct, both the Vulcan supply ship and the Klingon freighter are due at approximately the same time. Perhaps your Enterprise also. An interesting meeting for all parties."

Both eyebrows rose. She appeared to be taking the prospect with distressing flippancy and lightness.

"You are Indian?" Spock asked, even his present worries unable to subdue his avid curiosity. It could explain much he now found baffling about her.

"Apache," Keetah said shortly, then relented. Few white-eyes could tell Apache from Navajo or Ute, much less tell one Indian from another.

Expecting more from a Vulcan was childish. She lifted her head proudly, A direct descendant of the warriors who once raided across half a world. I specialize in hibernation and estivation; they offer many advantages to hypothermic surgery, free-fall surgery, some kinds of mental illness. I have been with the team for almost four years now. My home is on Mistai'ai. Do you know if it?"

"A class 'M' planet in the Orion sector, colonized by a mixed group of North Amerindians approximately 289.745 years ago. Principal exports –dilithium crystals, light metals, drugs, spices, hand-made jewelry, emergency survival equipment, and high–precision medical instruments."

Keetah stared at him in quickly hidden amazement. Every Vulcan she had ever met was quite overpoweringly well informed, but that one of them should know of an obscure human planet was in all truth unusual.

"The Federation has been granted the right to maintain outposts on the four largest continents. These are permitted on the firm understanding that no attempts to interfere in the domestic and internal affairs of Mistai'ai will be undertaken."

"It is so. Like Vulcan, my world is harsh and cruel; death stalks the unwary. We no longer war with the other Nations or the Pinda-lick-o-yi but to survive we must relearn the ways of our forebears. All the Nations have done thus. The learning came hard, so terribly hard, and the Ah-ni-zahni – the ancient ones of my people – called unceasingly. There was much sorrow in the Rancheria, and now Apache ride always with the war-lance at hand, that our little ones not go down under rending claws and fangs. We – all the Nations – live in harmony with nature and we do not wish any interference. Those who desire Federation training and skills may go to one of the outposts. Few of us so choose."

"You were one of those few?" To some small degree, he could understand the harsh necessities enforced by a desert existence, having undergone a similar experience, even if he could not approve of the methods.

"It is so. I trained on Sigma Draconis and joined the team on Alpha 177. We were transferred here two years ago."

"You have never been to Earth?" Now that Spock found surprising. In his experience, humans were singularly uncontrolled when it came to sentiment and nostalgia.

"It is Keet-e-wahn-gah, a forbidden place. Centuries ago our lands were wrested from us, our people pushed to the brink of extinction. Then came Mistai-ai, and we left the world that had given us birth. The Apache, along with the Navajo, the Sioux and Kowa, what was left of the Comanche, and Cheyenne, the Shoshone, a few Arapahoe. Life is a precious gift on my world, but it is better than the reservations, and we will never go back."

A tightness gathered in her throat, unbearable longing for her home and family, and she sat brooding for a moment. Then she jerked herself out of the mood and added softly, "Now, I hunt and kill Klingons."

"Indeed."

Again his disapproval was icy, his stare expressionless, enough to daunt even the strongest. Sirak was also an expert in that direction, Keetah thought with an inward smile as various incidents flitted quickly across her mind. Though he had never condemned; always there had been respect, if not understanding.

"With those?" Spock gestured at the primitive weaponry. His arm and chest ablaze as he moved, he controlled the pain, little energy or inclination left to argue absurdities.

"With those," she agreed levelly. Spock wished fleetingly that she would stop repeating everything he said.

"Klingons are not dobe'-gusndhe-he – invulnerable. A Klingon who has fallen down a crevasse and broken his neck is careless. A Klingon clawed to death by an animal is unfortunate. But a Klingon with the marks of a Federation weapon on him is a survivor to be hunted ruthlessly. My 'primitive' weapons can be made to serve many purposed is one is traine din their use…as I am."

Spock looked at her in silence. Apache. He had read about them. Nor could he deny that they had little hope of reaching the subspace radio, let alone getting away safely – though for him that was a desirable, but not entirely necessary, outcome.

"I estimate the odds of complete success to be approximately 5482 to one. That is of course, taking our surprise factor into consideration."

Keetah understood his reluctance, knowing that killing came hared to any Vulcan. And Spock, who was somehow – different – seemed doubly to dislike the idea. She knew then that it was time to apply pressure. Such tactics were an old, old story to her raider ancestors, and Spock was doubly vulnerable. Hating herself for the assault on his integrity, his Vulcan beliefs, she made herself say the words without emotion, coldly.

"If the odds are not reduced, the Enterprise and the Vulcan supply ship will be destroyed – by the garrison here or the Klingon freighter, which will be as heavily armed. On the other hand, perhaps they may wish to take prisoners. It is in my mind that there is little on Hiemal to amuse or occupy Klingons."

Spock flinched at the cold assessment of an all too likely outcome. Klingons bored with guard duties and collecting fungus would be only too eager to seek amusements to alleviate the monotony. The thought of James Kirk in their hands was one he found quite remarkably unattractive. Nor did he care for the idea of an unknown number of Vulcans in the same straits.

"It is the only way, Mr. Spock."

"Possibly," Spock's eyes swept Keetah in veiled distaste. "It seems I must rely on your expertise in such matters

Shaken, wondering why she found his aversion suddenly so – painful – she studied her hands as if she had never seen such objects before. "In all truth, I have killed these past weeks as I have never killed in my life before. The Rancheria, clan-kin, must survive. I failed in my duty, did not protect…" She stopped abruptly, finding herself in forbidden territory at thought of those she had lost.

She jerked herself out of the mood with an effort. "It is late, and you must be weary. We will talk again of these things when you have rested…"

O0o

Looking back, Spock was to remember his slow recuperation as a time of discovery: of Keetah, but also of himself, his motives, and beliefs. He was Vulcan, taught to revere all life, not just the good or beautiful or virtuous, but all life – which, unfortunately or not, included the Klingons. Yet he was also an officer in Star Fleet, trained in the martial arts, expected to use that training when the need arose. It was not a new dilemma. He had long since come to the conclusion that compromise was the only logical solution. He could and would kill, but only when all other avenues had been explored and found wanting.

The same rules did not bind Keetah; the same logic did not apply. Whatever debt she felt she must settle made her quite ruthless where the Klingons were concerned. Spock was curious, but to ask why was more than difficult, might well bring in exchange an equally difficult question. Learning that the team was dead had left its mark – not least the death of Sirak, far more than just the distant cousin he had spoken of to Captain Kirk.

Sirak - the greatest Synthesist Vulcan had ever produced - life long friend and companion of Spock's father and, from Spock's childhood, a staunch and unwavering support. Sirak, and T'Neah's son Sorel, was the only one of Spock's contemporaries who had never judged or condemned. And always there was calm acceptance from Sirak and T'Neah during their infrequent stays on Vulcan without the desperate need to please that existed between his own father - none of the despair when failure threatened, as it so often did.

T'Neah had died of an unknown disease many years ago, and Sirak no longer came back to Vulcan. Married, absorbed in his home and work, Sorel had gently dissolved the old boyhood relationship. Only Sirak continued to stay in touch, standing firmly behind Spock's decision to seek acceptance and a place where he could belong in Star Fleet. Their work on strange new worlds made communications rare but nonetheless valued. Now Sirak was dead – that anguished death cry in Spock's mind no malaise of too many missions, as real as the death of the starship Defiant. Though somehow he had thought, expected – surely the impact of Sirak's death must outweigh six Vulcans he knew by name only, had never met.

In some small, indefinable way, his expression must have must have altered, for Spock looked up to find Keetah studying him curiously. With innate courtesy, her eyelids dropped, unwilling to trespass on his privacy. He'd noted that quick perception before, so rare among humans. It intrigued and fascinated him, as did so many things about her, though it did little or nothing to lessen the antipathy he felt for her grisly plans.

Keetah was not without doubts of her own. Spock puzzled and confused her. He looked Vulcan, acted Vulcan, yet there was something …different about him, something she could not name. Disturbed by it, she was still drawn to him. An ancient legend slipped into her mind. Mba'a, the coyote, spirit to her people when they rode and ranged freely across the Americas; Ga'an – spirits – sometimes for food, sometimes not, but always there, a constant irritation. When he learned what she had done here, would Sirak also think of her as Ga'an, unreliable, not to be trusted, akin to the Mba'a? It was an idea to weight the heart, drag at her spirits. Best she finish Spock's outer garments and not dwell on thoughts to weaken the bravest.

Spock watched in silence, interest held by the skillful fingers as they cut and stitched, but after awhile he became aware of the hands lying idle in his lap. He stood up and was gratified to not that, other than the pain and the slight dizziness, he was able to move with relative freedom. Taking the longbow, he tentatively grasped the stave and drew the string. The savage pain and the voice came simultaneously…

o0o


	7. Chapter 7

Night of the Eagle.  
Chapter Seven

"Put that down!"

He whirled to find Keetah on her feet, knife in hand, an expression of hatred on her face. For a moment, they confronted each other, Spock trying to conceal, control the pain, Keetah gliding catlike toward him. A look of dismay crossed her face and she clapped a hand to her mouth in open consternation.

"You… I… I…beg forgiveness. I spoke hastily, without thought." Drawing a deep breath, Keetah sheathed her knife. "Those are a warrior's weapons bloodied in honorable combat, and may not be touched by one who…"

Just in time she stopped herself from saying 'one who has not yet proved himself in battle.' That she must not say to a Vulcan. "…by one not of the Eagle People," she compromised.

"It is Apache belief that the spirits of the slain respect their slayer and will not come to trouble dreams with their wailings. Doxa-da … this is not so … for one who takes unearned the weapons of another. To each people our own beliefs, Spock of Vulcan, and the wisdom not to mock. This I ask you, in all respect: never touch them again."

"Does this seem foolish to you, Mr. Spock?" She might almost have been reading his mind. "It is not. There are things of the mind, of the heart and spirit which cannot be explained either rationally or logically. We are an ancient people and we have always lived with the war-lance to hand. The Apache know – we have seen; ill fortune dogs the heels of one who has taken unearned the weapons of another. I have heard the longbow is foreign to your world, your people. Is this not truth?"

Replacing the bow as he had found it, Spock nodded guardedly. It was not in his nature to disparage the beliefs of others, even when they appeared no more than primitive superstitions, and he would not begin with Keetah. "The longbow, yes."

Spock had also seen things for which there was no rational or logical explanation. "However, many of my ancestors were rather fond of a primitive form of crossbow. It was – most efficacious – or so I am reliably informed."

He flexed his fingers cautiously, testing the muscles in chest and shoulder, knowing it was useless. The arm was stiff, unreliable; he could not use a bow with any degree of accuracy.

Keetah nodded politely, her expression remote. "I have seen holograms, museum exhibits. You lack the strength to use it or anything of a similar nature, but there is also another weapon popular with your people – one that has many functions. I have forgotten the name; was it the ahna…something?"

"The ahn-woon?" Spock's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. He turned the suggestion over in his mind. It was a good one, surprising though, coming form a human, and he briefly wondered how she knew of it. The ahn-woon was used chiefly as a training device, or for a few very special occasions never discussed with non-Vulcans.

"It should not prove too difficult," he mused, studying the hides she had scraped and tanned. "Although I have not made one since early childhood."

While Keetah watched, Spock selected two of the best hides and laid them flat. They were not as durable as the material used on Vulcan, but by using a double thickness, he hoped at least to produce a serviceable weapon. And if nothing else, his mind and hands would be gainfully employed.

The cutting-out, though unwieldy with only a knife to use, was simple enough. It was when he came to stitching the edges together that Spock's troubles began. The bone needles were necessarily thick and clumsy but also had an irritating tendency to bend whenever he exerted any great pressure. It took many frustrating hours of dogged work before he was done. At length, all that remained eas the fitting of bone handles to either end of the wide leather strip.

When he was finished, Keetah took up the simple weapon, inspecting it with a trained eye. She twirled it experimentally. Oldest and deadliest of Vulcan weapons, the ahn-woon could be uses as a sling, a bola, or a garrote. Her eyes shone as she cracked it like a whip, then gave it back. "Yat-ta-hay…very, very good, Spock of Vulcan. Now in all truth will the ndendai – enemy –regret stepping into the shadow of the Eagle and the Hawk.

O0o

They moved out after Keetah had, with infitite labor, cleared a narrow tunnel through the snow-packed gorge. It had taken all the remaining charges; the phaser was now useless. Negotiating the slit was awkward, burdened as they were by thick furs, snowshoes, and the weapons, Keetah insisted they carry. A needle-fingered cold driven before the wind sucked heat from them; a wolf-wind that howled and whined, probing for weaknesses.

It was much worse when they emerged finally into the open. Spock knew he had not regained his strength fafter the mauling by the Lur, but to have held off any longer might well give the Klingons the opportunity they needed to finish harvesting their fungal crop. And in the back of his mind was the ever present fear that the Enterprise might arrive earlier than expected.

This was his first time on snowshoes, and the heavy circular shapes were an added difficulty.

"Watch how I do it," Keetah said at last, seeing the pain and fatigue etched into the lines on his face. "Think of the sands of Sas-a-Shar as you walk them – use the same uneven, gliding shuffle."

Spock watched her progress a short distance, then followed suit, imitating her, and it wasn't long before he found himself almost unconsciously slipping into a rhythm he had not used in years. The ache in abused thigh muscles gradually wore off and, though the going was hard, he felt quite capable of finishing the journey.

The route she chose led over and through hills, tumbles of rock draped in snowy mantles, knife-slash valleys, avoiding smooth areas, open spaces. Keetah pointed out dangerous places; ice bridges spanning crevices and ravines; a few safe, but most to be avoided. Once she three a heavy rock, which took all her strength to lift, out into a patch of snow, and it vanished without a trace. And always the drift-wind howled, whipping up snow to meet the soft flakes endlessly drifting downwards.

Hiemal was a perilous world, as inimical to them as to the Klingons and far more impersonal. It could kill in a hundred different ways – some quick, some slow – and the way of their passing would mean nothing to a planet that belonged solely to winter's cruel embrace. An aptly named wolf-world indeed.

Unlike him, Keetah moved with ease, glancing back at him as he struggled doggedly in her wake. When at last he came level with her, she pointed ahead to where slim buttes thrust into the sky, a narrow trail snaking between them. She loosened the thong holding the tomahawk at her wrist, eased her knife in and out of its sheath, rearranged the Lur claws dangling at her belt.

"That is the end of the M'aco sica, the badlands. Beyond lies the basin the Klingons have taken for their garrison. It will be easier from now on, but do not relax vigilance. There are still many dangers. Step only where I step and be prepared to take cover immediately at my signal."

Spock nodded, heart pounding as he drew icy, rarified air into his lungs. Keetah watch him, her own breath leaving a cloud of frozen vapor wreathing her head. "We cannot rest long. It is dangerous."

"The Klingons?" Spock questioned quickly, glancing about warily.

Keetah hunched a scornful shoulder. "They fear the open, preferring the safety of their garrison, their sleds, and interceptors. No, inhabited areas attract predators, many far worse than the Lur. There is one, the Omeenachee, which compensates for lack of bulk by hunting in packs. Once on a trail, they cannot be stopped or turned. Come, the garrison lies just over the ridge. Keep well down. It is heavily guarded and, with much to lose, the ndendai fear much. They shoot first and ask questions afterwards."

Cautiously they wormed forward until they could see through a screen of sharp-edged rocks, inspecting the place minutely for any weakness. The subsonic hum of a force screen roughened Spock's skin, irritating his sensitive hearing.

Keetah stiffened suddenly. "There, do you see, the interceptors?"

Two craft swept out of cloud-choked skies and came in to land. Spock watched intently as a lone sled suddenly appeared from some hidden exit and made for the ships. Klingons boiled out of nowhere. They were too far away to make out much of what was going on, but it looked as if Keetah was right. The place had the air of a busy port.

"You have seen enough?"

Spock inclined his head and they wriggled back out of sight. Once in the ravine again, they took cover behind a snowy bank, huddled together for warmth, the intense cold penetrating even their furs. At last, she said, "There is a chance for success?"

"Perhaps, but with so many soldiers about, a diversion will be necessary."

"That is easy enough to arrange," Keetah eyed him speculatively.

"I want confusion, not excessive loss of life," Spock retaliated shortly. "I am still concerned about our withdrawal after I have contacted the Enterprise."

Keetah's mouth stretched in a thin smile which in no way denoted warmth or homor as hse brushed snow from her mask and replaced it over her eyes. "There will be confusion. By the time they reorganize – what few of them are left –we will be long gone."

Disgusted by her attitude, Spock was quick to retort. "The decision to end a life is not something to undertake lightly. You take too much on yourself."

"As do you, Spock of Vulcan." Keetah flashed. "You are not Elder brother, to say this or that will be so and have it done. Only Tsoay, Cuchillo's son, has the right to ask obedience from me. This is Apache law. Only Tsoay, and he who is heart's desire. You say, think, 'human,' as if we are androids with identical programming. That is not the Vulcan way, Mr. Spock. Be not so hasty to judge where you do not understand."

She pushed herself abruptly to her feet. "It is time we left. Darkness will fall soon."

This time she did not hold back for Spock as she raced down the trail, rage spurring her on. Ashamed that her anger had betrayed her into an unjust and undeserved counterattack, Keetah ran from him, not wanting him to view the hurt she felt by his rebuke….

Straight into a returning patrol….

It was too late to turn aside, too late to hide as the four-man sled bore down on her. Keetah whipped back, diving sideways, reaching for the quiver of arrows over her shoulder. The shaft took the driver in the throat, and with a strangled scream, he toppled out into the snow. Completely out of control, the sled spun wildly, runners screeching as the Klingon in the passenger seat wrestled desperately with the controls.

Spock, winded by the sudden need for speed, grabbed for the ahn-woon as soon as he was in range. He snatched a fist-sized rock from the pouch at his waist, slipped it into the ahn-woon and let fly. Another Klingon tumbled backwards into the snow. Trembling on one runner, the sled turned over. Still yards away, Spock and Keetah saw the other two members of the Klingon patrol, obviously in shock, crawl weakly out of the wreckage. Uncaring that physically she was outmatched, Keetah drew her big hunting knife and began to circle lightly, eyes fixed on the smaller of the two remaining soldiers.

A few paces behind Keetah as she stalked her chosen prey, Spock found himself facing the other survivor, a great bear of a man muffled in thick furs. For perhaps a second or two they stared at each other… before the Klingon leapt forward, serrated teeth bared, a roar of rage on his lips. The Klingon landed in a combat crouch, hands reaching for the laser pistol at his belt.

There was little time to see how Keetah fared. Spock ducked, as the energy beam swept over his head. Fur sizzled on his hood in the sudden heat. He grabbed for another rock. Despite the Klingon's bulk, his speed was tremendous. Spock sidestepped the ahn-woon ready, but abruptly found his opponent missing. Seconds later, there came a sledgehammer blow in the small of his back. He went to his knees in the clinging snow, aware that his adversary was no raw recruit but a seasoned warrior as good as or even better than he was himself.

Doubled with pain, Spock rolled frantically. A swirl of burning vapor enveloped him as he lurched to his feet once more, darting for the hand that held the pistol. Startled, the Klingon fell back but not quite fast enough as Spock brought his right heel down hard on the other's instep, at the same time slamming the side of his hand across the big Klingon's wrist. Uttering a frightful oath as the pistol skittered across the snow; the warrior launched himself once again at Spock.

On the periphery of his mind, Spock vaguely became aware of a queer, mewling giggle of agony, a broken plea for help, and knew Keetah was not experiencing his difficulty. Spock feinted to the right, swung to grab one handed at he other's fur parka. Again, he found himself nailed to the ground, a beefy forearm jammed up against his chin, fetid breath in his face, his head painfully forced backwards. Agony lanced through Spock's injured shoulder. He fought to get air into his lungs, the blood pounding in his ears.

"All right," the gruff voice spoke Basic. "Now you will answer some questions. Who are you? What is your name?" The arm pressed harder against his windpipe as Spock jerked. A black and green mist formed before his eyes.

"Your name, Federation bastard, or I will crush your windpipe and let you choke in your own blood." The big warrior's eyes glittered behind his mask as Spock twitched feebly under him. "Your name…!"

Spock moaned, his eyes rolling up in their sockets.

"Let me … up," he gasped. "You…are…killing…me."

"And don't I know it, you filthy whoreson," rumbled the Klingon with suppressed humor. But the arm slackened beneath Spock's chin. It was all that he needed…

With a thrust of his abdomen, he arched his back, twisting one arm free of the stranglehold the Klingon had on him. His fingers probed expertly and found the right place without any trouble, digging into a point at the base of the thick bull neck. He squeezed gently, calmly taking the time he required…

His hand stopped its probing as he caught sight of Keetah. She came on slowly, the blade of the tomahawk flashing as she twirled it lightly.

"No, Keetah, no."

But it was already too late. His shout was cut short by a soft but quite audible thuuwup… and the tomahawk lay buried up to the shaft in the Klingon's back. The warrior's eyes widened in disbelief and he twisted in agony. Already glazing in death behind his mask, the dark eyes stared down at Spock, still lying beneath him.

"Dirty Federation bastard." The words slurred, harsh with impotent anger. "Should have crushed your windpipe when I could…"

A second later he slumped across Spock, head lolling, a red stain spreading slowly across his broad back.

Keetah bent to push at the dead weight, offering a hand to help Spock to his feet, only to find herself looking directly at condemnation. She withdrew abruptly, wanting to strike the censure from his face. Savagely she yanked the tomahawk free, japing it again and again into the snowdrift to clean it.

Spock brushed at the sweat on his forehead and forced himself erect, wincing as fresh pain surged through his shoulder. He stared down at the dead Klingon. "He could have been useful –given us much useful information."

"We make no alliance with the ndenai."

"We are not barbarians," Spock replied icily. "Your objective could have been achieved without killing."

Keetah thrust the tomahawk into her belt and ripped off her mask, exposing the black stripes on her cheek. "Search your memory, Mr. Spock: war paint. Few have ever questioned its meaning. Savages paint themselves before going into battle in the hopes of frightening their enemies. The Pinda-lick-o-yi have another name for it. The mark of Cain. Now this is truth. Were I to go to the Rancheria and say … my …team were foully murdered and I had done nothing, shame and dishonor would lie across the Nation. They would drive me forth as unclean, a renegade, less than these Klingons you would deal with; as natdahe – outlaw. I would be as one already dead."

"The past is done, "Spock retorted. "They would not have wanted this to happen. It will not bring them back…"

Wearily, Keetah replaced her mark. "That decision is not mine, or yours, to make. We walk a pattern laid out for us at our births. Honor decency, self-respect, loyalty, are the steps. The differences between us are far less than you wish to believe. Four years have I lived and worked amongst Vulcans; another year I have studied at the Science Academy. You are not like them. What are you, Mr. Spock?"

But she did not wait for an answer as she turned to regard the carnage spread across the snow. "The smell of fresh blood will draw the Omeenachee. It would be better if they did not find us waiting here."

Spock nodded, eyes averted from the claw marks gouged deeply in flesh and sled alike. He could understand the necessity of disguising their presence; he could not approve. While she checked her handiwork, he bent swiftly and, not without a measure of disgust, searched the dead Klingon. Quietly, he tucked away what he found as Keetah came back. Silence grew between them, strained and unhappy, as they slogged back to the cave.

It was bitterly cold, and Keetah set about building two small, hot fires, heating food and drink. They sat apart, enjoying the heat that slowly warmed their numbed bodies, still lost in the silence neither of them felt able to break.

Keetah stared blindly into the dancing flames. Spock's disapproval she accepted stoically. That he thought of her as a bloddthirsty savage was a pain so sharp that she had to bite her lip to hold back the cry of protest. She did not blame him, but with all her heart she wished that someday he might learn to look upon her with a little kindness. It was impossible to explain the promise she had made – as well ask him to explain Koon-ut-kal-if-fee. As Vulcan law was sacrosanct, so too was Apache. If only the loss of his good opinion did not hurt so much.

Remembering the articles he ahd taken from the dead Klingon, Spock pulled them from his shirt and began to examine them. Three small cylindrical objects, dull grey in color, shone faintly in the light of the fire, the crude oil lamps.

"What have you there?" Keetah glad to shake off her depression, the misery settling over her, glanced at the objects he held curiously. Spock passed her one, their eyes meeting. They stared at each other, knowing that, like it or not, they must work together, achieve some form of unity, or perish with their mission unfulfilled.

O0o


	8. Chapter 8

Night of the Eagle

Chapter Eight

The Vulcan first officer cleared his throat, still a little sore and bruised where the Klingon's arm had pressed. "A sonic grenade. I took it from one of the bodies."

Keetah stiffened, her fingers outstretched, then slowly relaxed. "To touch the dead or their possessions is to be defiled. It is an old belief, but all my life I have heard Apache say this. As a scientist I automatically think of decomposition, infection, but as a daughter of the Apache I am not quite so sure that is the only explanation."

"There are many things we still do not understand," Spock said calmly, recognizing the effort she made. "Often there is a core of truth in the traditions handed down from generation to generation. It was once mooted, I believe, that inanimate objects could record what had taken place – at least for a time." He looked at his hands. "Sometimes it is difficult to put aside all we have learned or been told and find a new way."

The inference was clear: the ways of her ancestors did not belong in the Federation. Keetah shrugged inwardly. For one whose knowledge of Mistai'ai was vast, he seemed strangely ignorant of how they really lived. It was truth they followed the herds, living as nomads in the ancient fashion; also truth that during the season of great heat they lived in their cliff Rancherias – cities that could rival any Federation city, old or new. A wish to live as one with nature, using modern technology only when essential, did not automatically preclude the possibility or understanding of such technology, its by-products.

"To follow a way not one's own is never easy, but it is possible to accept or reject without denying truth in both cultures. Tsoay was hurt for my longing for knowledge not of the Apache, but Cuchillo understood. The same thirst is in him, though it took a different form from my own. He is Shaman, healer of minds and bodies, and commands great respect. It is in my mind he spoke for me in Council, and Tsoay listened and did not forbid me to go in search of a different truth."

Spock's eyebrows climbed into his hairline, "Tsoay?"

"Among the Apache it is Elder Brother who commands, not he who was sire or she who was dam. My mother is also Shaman, but she has great lover for me in her heart, did not wish me to go, and therefore sided with Tsoay."

"You have never returned?"

"It is so – from choice, Mr. Spock. Always will there be a welcome in the Rancheria for me, but I have no wish to hurt Tsoay again. Elder Brother is a good man, a kind man, but he is Apache. He could not understand my hunger for things I could learn only from the Federation. There was much pain and grief in his heart when he bade me farewell, and there is no one who takes more pride in my modest achievements."

"Perhaps you underestimated his ability to understand."

"Perhaps. And what of you, Mr. Spock? It is unusual to find a Vulcan aboard a Federation vessel…"

Spock let the silence lengthen until Keetah began to wonder if he would answer at all. At last, he brought his gaze to rest on her patiently waiting face. "I, too, made a choice…"

Keetah waited.

At last he went on, "My mother is from Earth. I am only half Vulcan."

O0o

Keetah stared at him in wordless shock, unable to frame the words to apologize for her tactless question. She had not meant to embarrass or imply any aversion to his ethics. She saw that she had again been unjust as he waited in tranquil silence for her reaction. "And naturally you preferred the Vulcan way?"

"At the time it was the only logical thing to do."

"I, too, prefer it. Have you ever regretted your decision?"

Again, he was silent for a time. "Regret would be illogical. I am accepted for what I am and there can be no going back. I have come to terms with my life as it is. Perhaps it would be as well if you were to endeavor to do the same."

Half human he might be – Keetah shook a rueful head – but his strategy was all Vulcan. She should have remembered that they never revealed details about their personal lives unless to serve some purpose of their own. She looked down at the sonic grenade she still held in her hand. "What do you intend to do with these?"

Aware that she had effectively turned the conversation from herself, Spock complied with the unspoken request to drop the subject. "In storming the garrison, the most logical point to remember is not how to get into it, but how to get out in a hurry should anything not go according to plan."

"The diversion you talked about?"

"Precisely. The loss of a sled will most certainly alert them to the possibility of danger from a new quarter. They know of my shuttle's arrival. They will be on their guard. However, we have proved from today's expedition that the garrison is vulnerable. Confusion at the beginning will certainly ensure or at least increase our chances of survival and simplify our mission."

He frowned, "It is unfortunate that we were unable to take one of them prisoner. He would have been most useful in supplying the coordinates of the transmitter. As it is, we may lose valuable time conducting a search."

"Capturing one when we are inside should not be difficult, and a little persuasion often achieves miraculous results."

"There will be no repetition of today's events, I hope." Spock said sternly. "You will not engage in indiscriminate slaughter."

Their eyes locked and Keetah nodded reluctant agreement. "No indiscriminate killing. I have said this."

Spock regarded her doubtfully. He had no practical experience of blood feuds as such but he realized such a situation existed there. Somehow, Keetah felt responsible for the deaths of her team and meant to avenge them at all costs. It mattered little to her, it seemed, that the Vulcans themselves would never have agreed to such drastic action. Equally apparent, she had some plan of her own. Until he knew what it was, he could do nothing. He must accept her promise at face value. "It seems I have little alternative but to accept your word."

"It is so," Keetah agreed. An Apache's word was sacred, never broken, and most certainly never questioned. "Now tell me your plan."

"The Enterprise should be arriving approximately one week from now and will be able to monitor a subspace radio communication well before then – and if random factors operate in our favor, long before the Klingon freighter arrives. Therefore, our attack must be timed to the minute, not too early, and not so late as to leave the ship open to any treachery the Klingons can devise."

"And these?" Keetah gestured at the sonic grenades.

"Strategically located, they should cause sufficient disturbance for us to reach the transmitter, send our warning, and in the general confusion escape. If we choose the right weather conditions, enter at night, there is little chance of the Klingons catching up with us."

Keetah stared down at the harmless looking grenades. As Spock so rightly suspected, she had another plan in mind. Not that she thought there was anything wrong with his, but she had been on the wolf-world longer than he had. The Klingons were one thing, Hiemal quite another. If they were to escape, they would need far more than darkness to aid them. She had promised not to kill gratuitously, but there were other ways…

Killing, always killing. Abruptly she felt exhausted by it all, sick of the blood staining her hands, poisoning mind and spirit. A torn and broken body filled her vision. E'dik'e – friend – she had named Senak and the others of her team. The names spun around in her mind. Senak, his bondmate, beautiful gentle T'Pila; Solem and T'Kaya; Sobra and T'Pa-an; not of her clan or Nation but kin all the same. Placing on her the same duties and obligations.

Unaware of Spock's inquiring glance, Keetah stumbled blindly to her feet. She had thought she could keep it properly within bounds until she was free to mourn. She had been wrong. That was why one never spoke the names of the unavenged dead aloud, never even though of them. The grief welled up uncontrollably. Think of something else, anything else. Recite the prayers of thanksgiving to the new day. Frantically she seized on that. Yes, recite the prayers , stop thinking, stop feeling…

"Keetah?" The voice finally penetrated and she turned to find Spock at her elbow, dark eyes concerned. Keetah held onto that. He was so much like Sirak. For a moment, her control faltered and someone else stood in his place. Sirak…Sirak, why must I mourn alone? Help me. I cannot bear this…

She felt rather than saw Spock reach out to support her. A gentle man, so very gentle – that was the strangeness she had sensed in him. There was a warm comfort in the hard body and selfishly, unthinkingly, Keetah leaned into him, blind to everything but the feverishly recited prayers.

He tried to withdraw but the world had already begun to slip, as she became one with Spock of Vulcan. They broke away from each other, Spock stammering in open, naked embarrassment. "That…should not have happened…"

O0o


	9. Chapter 9

Night of the Eagle

Chapter 10

Chapter 9

Keetah shook her head, a repetitious, mechanical movement as she backed away from him. "No, this cannot be. What… have you done…?"

She was aware as she spoke, seeing his face drain of blood that she had trespassed into a forbidden area, taken part in one of the most closely guarded secrets of Vulcan life. She knew of the mind meld…what it signified.

"I must…apologize… for my lack of control," Spock said unsteadily. "The … it is not…usually so… spontaneous…"

His unspoken, unbelieving demand hovered in the air between them. How could it have happened. And Keetah sought for an explanation that would appease him, divert his mind from the only possibility. "Apache live as one with nature. Perhaps that gives us sensitivity unusual among humans generally. Or perhaps my studies of the healing trance have fostered an elasticity unknown to me. We are both tired. We should sleep now."

Spock agreed with alacrity. Yet, when they were both wrapped in their separate furs, she could not expunge that split second of total fusion. Because he was Vulcan, she had assumed he would have full control at all times – an assumption not borne out by the facts, as he might well say himself. Unfamiliar with the wolf-world, not fully recovered from his wounds, the conflict of wills, her own desperate need for comfort – all these had smashed the barriers down between them. Now, memories came, swift and involuntary – Spock's memories.

There were fleeting images, strange worlds, suns, faces; the urge toward space and ships, to voyage among the stars. Keetah writhed in painful embarrassment, unable to shut them out. The fears, the joys, the defeats, and the victories; the constant battle between his Vulcan and Human selves; his loneliness, an aloneness beyond her comprehension, all were laid bare to her. Without a mate, unbonded, Spock was only half a person, forever outside the linkage that bound his people together. Never and always touching and touched. The Vulcan greeting that was far more than just that. Not just estrangement but total deprivation. Years of silent endurance, with the need to be reached, known, and loved running like a thread through his life, spurred by his human side. He appeared entirely unaware of his own seeking, so well had he denied the inner hunger, the craving that had spurred him relentlessly into the company of humans, on human ships, with human emotions rife about him.

Tears pricked behind her eyes in sympathy – and yet all was not lost. She delicately circled the flame of deeply hidden warmth she had touched upon so unexpectedly. Spock had found an answer, his answer – one that satisfied him for the moment. Some day somewhere, he would also recognize the mirror image he unconsciously sought. Keetah turned and stared straight into dark eyes. Only then did realization dawn – a meld worked two ways.

O0o

Spock breathed slowly, deeply, trying to clear his mind. The initial shock was passing and he was able to think rationally. The meld had shaken him badly, the more so because Keetah was the last person he would have chosen as the confidante of his innermost thoughts. He puzzled over the curious, rhythmic – chant…song…incantation…so effectively blocking two –way egress. Still, one fact had emerged clearly: Sirak was alive! Keetah knew it to be true.

He turned to look at the Apache girl. Although few thoughts or memories had touched him, her pain and desolation, the need to fulfil her oath, came through the link. A soundless cry for help reverberated along his nerves: /Sirak, …why must I mourn alone? Help me, please…./

The loss of her team had broken something infinitely fragile, infinitely precious to Keetah, and she had sought - was still seeking - refuge in the age-old laws and customs of her people; defend, protect, show no mercy – allow no weakness through which an enemy could strike at the Nation. Keetah had taken up the war-lance to protect the Vulcan team she had unconsciously substituted for the family she missed so much. She had failed in that self-imposed task. Spock was unable to understand why that failure reflected on the honor of all Apaches; he could only accept that, in some manner unclear to him, it did.

Moreover, until she had removed the dishonor, there could be no expiation, no welcome in the Rancheria, no right to mourn her dead. Suddenly aware that she was unflinchingly returning his gaze, Spock turned away, unable to face the still, dark eyes.

Once he had linked with the command crew of the Enterprise to save their lives when they were caught in the web spun by the Melkotians. There had been other times, other intelligent beings, but always he'd had time to shield. Only with Jim Kirk had he ever voluntarily lowered his barriers, knowing with an inner surety that his trust would never b e abused – a surety he was not prepared to grant Keetah, Cuchillo's daughter.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The Bridge door swished open. Lieutenant Uhura looked around and quickly smothered a grin. She cooed at him sweetly, "Welcome aboard, Captain. Did you have a pleasant leave?"

Kirk winced, clutched his head dramatically, "No need to shout, Uhura. I'm not deaf. Mr. Chekov, order all shore leave parties back to the ship and prepare to warp out of orbit."

Chekov checked his console, "All ship's personnel aboard and accounted for, Keptin."

Boy, that must have been some leave, he jauntily speculated. The captain was greener than Mr. Spock at his best! "All instruments at normal operational capacity, sir."

"Then set a course for Hiemal, Mr. Sulu. Standard warp." Kirk glanced surreptitiously around, wondering why no one else seemed to notice the queasy way the deck plates were rising and falling.

"Aye, sir . Standard warp." Sulu's hands moved smoothly over this board. "Course locked in. Estimated time of arrival, approximately eight-point six-three-two hours, Captain."

"Fine. Then I think I'll go and slee…er, read – the hangover…the overhaul reports. Uhura, you have the con." Kirk flinched. Scotty had to do something about those hydraulics; they were far too noisy. He entered the turbo-lift and in a far from command voice whispered, "Take me to Sickbay…."

Laughter erupted as soon as the doors closed.

"He'll be lucky if there are any hangover pills left," Sulu quipped. "The way I heard it, Doctor McCoy arrived on board looking as if he'd been pickled in embalming fluid."

The little men with pick hammers had decided to vacate his skull at last. Kirk was drifting blissfully on a rosy cloud of sleep when the intercom beeped insistently. He remembered to stop swearing before he depressed the switch. The lovely features of his communications officer looked at him from the small tri-screen. Not trouble he hoped. "What is it, Uhura?"

"Captain, forward sensors have just picked up the readings of a second vessel."

"Configuration, Uhura?" Kirk redoubled his prayer.

"Too far away to say, Captain, but it seems to be traveling on a parallel course to the Enterprise. Heading for Hiemal, Captain."

"I'll be right up. Hold our present course."

As he re-entered the Bridge, Kirk's eyes went automatically to the viewscreen, but there was nothing to be seen except the hazy star pattern. Sulu turned to him as he sat down still a little gingerly.

"Sir, the latest computer reports suggest the vessel to be a Type Three supply freighter – of Vulcan design."

Thank the Great Bird of the galaxy for that. Kirk swiveled his chair to where the young Russian had taken over at Spock's library console. "Mr. Chekov?"

The young Russian adjusted one of his controls. "It should be appearing on the screen any second now, sir. Identification positive. The ship is the Vulcan supply wessel, Re-hesy."

"Sir," Uhura's calm voice broke in, "I am receiving a transmission from the

Re-hesy. Shall I put it on visual?"

"Patch it in, Lieutenant."

Instantly the view on the main screen shimmered and winked out, to be replaced by the face of a man – a Vulcan, probably in his early or middle hundreds, Kirk judged. Although, as with most Vulcans, it was hard to tell, since they remained physically unchanged from early adulthood, aging only slightly over the years. Accentuated by sleek, shining, blue-black hair, his features were typical of his race, with upswept eyebrows and the familiar pointed ears. In his coloring, stance and build, he was a tauter, finer drawn duplicate of Ambassador Sarek – Spock's father.

"Captain James T. Kirk, commanding the Starship Enterprise. It seems we have the same destination in mind, sir."

The older man bent a calm, slightly curious glance on him, "Indeed, although, no doubt, for a different purpose." His lips curved almost imperceptibly as he held up his hand in the ta'al. "Live long and prosper, Captain Kirk. I am Sirak, leader of the research team on Hiemal. We have been expecting you for some time. It is an honor to meet you at last."

"Thank you, sir. The pleasure is mine. Kirk hesitated as he saw Sirak's glance wander over his shoulder to take in the other members of the bridge crew. "Is there something wrong, Mr. Sirak?

Vulcan's foremost Synthesist looked back at him immediately. "Assuredly not, Captain Kirk. However, it appears I have been misinformed. I was under the impression that a kinsman of mine, a Commander Spock of Vulcan, was first officer of the Enterprise."

"That's correct, Sir. Mr. Spock is my first officer. He's on leave at the moment.." Kirk smiled again. "Perhaps if you would care to come aboard. I'm sure we could find much to discuss."

"Sirak inclined his head in acknowledgment, that most untypical half-smile just brushing his lips. "That wil be most pleasant, Captain. I shall be standing by."

The vision screen darkened and reformed, this time with a slightly fuzzy outline of the Re-hesy superimposed on a background of stars. Kirk pushed himself upright, hangover a thing of the past now that no danger threatened his ship.

"Bring us in closer, Mr. Sulu. As soon as we're in range, have Sirak beamed aboard and escorted to the senior officers' lounge. I'll be waiting there." That would give him time to shower and change his uniform, or Sirak was likely to think he always slept in it.

When he reappeared, Sirak's tall, powerful form was clothed in dead black pants and a tunic with a faint overlay of silver stitchery – an outfit both restrained and expensive which emphasized the arresting sensitive face of its owner. The two waiting officers stood immediately and Kirk stepped forward. "Welcome aboard, sir. May I introduce my senior physician, Doctor Leonard McCoy?"

"Pleased to meet you, Ambas…uh, Scientist," McCoy managed tactfully, trying not to stare. The resemblance was downright uncanny. Except for the straight, blue-black hair and fine-drawn features, he could be talking to Spock's father.

"Just, 'Sirak', Doctor McCoy. I come to serve." Again, he raised his hand in the ta'al salute.

"Very well…Sirak. Jim here tells me you don't know that our first officer, Mr. Spock, set out for Hiemal over four weeks ago. We're on our way to pick him up now."

Sirak's brows arched in Spock's familiar polite inquiry, "That is quite correct, Dr. McCoy. However, my lack of knowledge has a logical explanation. Three months ago, I left Hiemal for Vulcan. This is the first time I have returned since."

Kirk and McCoy exchanged a glance, concern written on both their faces.

"Then you wouldn't know if Spock actually arrived? Kirk asked.

"There appears to be some … anxiety…over this matter. Am I to assume that you fear for Spock's safety?"

Kirk glanced again at McCoy before he answered. "It's usual for members of the crew to check in regularly with the ship. Spock hasn't done so since he left. He did, however, mention that the storms on Hiemal have disrupted d communications before."

"That is correct, but never for such a prolonged period," Sirak admitted, dark eyes hooded in thought. "Is there a possibility of damage to his communication system. Perhaps some fault?"

"It still wouldn't explain why we haven't been able to contact your research team, sir."

Sirak tensed unmistakably. "They do not answer us – so it is true!" Sirak spoke almost to himself, his face totally expressionless, looking inwards at some private fear – or knowledge – of his own.

"You've also tried contacting your people without success?" Deep inside, Kirk could feel the unease blossom. Something was terribly wrong, and not only with Spock!

!I am of the opinion that the situation warrants further investigation, Captian – without delay. If you will excuse me, I must return immediately to the Re-hesy and…"

Uhura's voice erupted into the room. "Bridge to Captian Kirk."

Murmuring a swift apology, Kirk crossed to the wall intercom. "Kirk here. What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Captain, I've picked up a signal of some kind; nothing intelligible and very weak."

"Point of origin, Uhura?"

"That's just it, Captain – it's coming from Hiemal."

"Stick with it, Uhura." Kirk's palms started to sweat. He shurged trying not to let his sudden hope show too much. "What do you think, sir? Could that be possible?"

"Think, Captain Kirk…?" An eyebrow rose in faint disdain. "It would be pleasant, no doubt to believe that Spock is sending that message. However, would it not be more logical for him to transmit in a recognized language – Interlingua, Terran, Vulcan even? And if it is coming from the research base…it cannot be a member of my team."

"How can you be so sure?" McCoy demanded, loath to have this new expectation shot down in flames so easily.

Sirak regarded him levelly, "I am sure, Doctor, but there is no proof I can offer to convince you of that fact. You must believe what you choose."

McCoy turned away, his expression a mixture of anger and disgust. "Damn Vulcans, not a one will give a straight answer to a question."

"Take it easy, Bones." Kirk was well aware that Sirak's Vulcan hearing could not have failed to hear the remark, but there was no censure in the dignified, calm, features.

"If it is of…assistance – to you, Captain and Doctor, I do not believe that Spock is dead."

"And that's straight from the same bush telegraph, I suppose?" McCoy sarcastically returned.

"Bush telegraph? Sirak's eyebrow climbed. "Ah, yes… one of your quaint human expressions. The 'obscure and rapid transmission of information through a country or population' , is the correct meaning, I believe. Not entirely an accurate description but let it stand. Spock and I are well known to each other. He has been a… protégé – of mine since his early childhood, and therefore it is impossible for him to suffer any misfortune without my awareness."

"Are you equally well-informed about your team, sir?" Kirk asked grimly. It was all he could do not to grab the older man and shake the truth out of him.

"Concern has been expressed by the captain and crew of the Re-hesy, but I cannot…there are factors which prevent…" Sirak swung abruptly way from them, afraid perhaps of showing more than he wished of some inner turmoil.

Once in control, Sirak faced them again, "It is true, we felt them die, but…" His fingers reached for his temple, forehead creased in a frown. The hand fell once more to his side. "No matter. It is illogical to speculate without adequate data."

"Then it's time we went in search of some answers," Kirk's tone was harsh with anxiety. "I'll have someone escort you to the transporter and – "

Sirak interposed, "If it would not disrupt your routine unduly I would prefer to remain aboard the Enterprise, Captain. Speed is now of the essence, and I doubt the Re-hesy has the capability to match a starship."

Kirk nodded. Although Sirak's face remained stony, he could not forget the brief expression of haunting sadness. And there was also Spock. What was between this man and his friend? Far more than just a distant kinship, or he would eat his commission, seals and all. "Of course. It's an honor to have you aboard, sir. I'll have a stateroom prepared for you, or… perhaps you'd like to accompany us to the Bridge? It might make the waiting a little easier to bear."

Sirak's eyebrow rose, but he nodded politely, lips curving in the smile he had learned to use after decades of living and working among these emotional humans. "Astute of you, Captian Kirk. Now I understand why Spock finds his duties on StarFleet so endlessly fascinating. I had thought such insight a rare attribute among humans. There is still much to be learned of your species, I see."

Kirk didn't know whether to be pleased or insulted by the back-handed compliment but smiled anyway. It was obvious that Sirak was trying to make himself agreeable, and Vulcans weren't especially noted for their tact. "Perhaps each of us still has much to learn, sir."

But as he reached for the intercom, Kirk's thoughts were far removed from promoting interstellar goodwill and understanding. "Kirk to Bridge. Inform the Re-hesy that Sirak will be remaining aboard as our guest, Uhura. Then ahead Warp Factor six."

The only Vulcan he was interested in at that moment was host somewhere in Hiemal, perhaps alone and injured. Kirk pulled his mind sharply back from that, feeling his body go cold and sticky with sweat. He stood aside politely, gesturing Sirak to precded him, and with McCoy treading on his heels headed for the bridge.

No, Spock was alive! Sirak didn't have a concession on that piece of information. How he knew, what the mechanics of it were, Kirk couldn't fathom, but deep in his subconscious, some sixth sense or instinct told him that Spock at least still lived. Illogical, he thought, and managed a grim smile. But illogical or not, that tiny scrap of insight was perhaps the only thing that kept him sane as the hours ticked past with agonizing slowness.

O0o


End file.
